


Lost and Found

by Sunshineditty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Inspired ficlet, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineditty/pseuds/Sunshineditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The passage of fourteen years should've blunted or dulled my memories, tinged them with shades of rose, but I was ever a pragmatist and a good sort of Catholic. The names and faces of the seven boys we lost between one breath and the next were forever written on my heart so I lit a candle for them every year, knees bent in supplication to a god I wasn't sure existed, but couldn't completely discount.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Runaways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/257903) by [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa). 



> Outsiders' pov of the Winchesters are perhaps one of my all time favorite sort of stories because I'm always curious to see how the author is going to use the unstable narrator - we the reader are privy to details about the boys that the outsider obviously isn't, so it's interesting to see how their lives are interpreted though the looking glass of a completely different mindset. I don't normally presume to understand the authors or their characters, but for some reason this Keerawa's Maddy Connor really struck a chord with me, especially when she identified with Dean, but for all the wrong reasons, so when this little ficlet sprung up nearly fully fleshed out in my mind, I couldn't resist writing it. I hope the author will take this gift in the spirit with which it was written.

I will never know what made me look at him; he was just another lost soul roaming the streets, a sight that is too well-known to me for it to make much impact. Yet, I did. I turned when I saw him hunched and hiding against the brick wall, his face hidden beneath a fall of dirty brown hair, hands weaving complicated patterns for an invisible audience. He spoke to a voice only he could hear, pleading and arguing in rising syllables of distress mixed with resignation and despair. The only familiar thing about him was his schizophrenia; the man himself was unrecognizable, but I felt a connection to him nonetheless. 

It's the curse of empathy I've never escaped, even if the twenty-four year old with a bleeding heart died a painless death beneath the weight of the reality of life in the greater Chicago area. St. Jerome's Boys' Home I ran with Father Jacobs was turned into a Star Bucks a decade ago when the city finally declared the neighborhood a disaster zone and sold it to high end developers who made the area the next "it" place to be; it was both sickening and amusing to know yuppies crowded places where junkies once slapped unresponsive veins in search of their next high, where lost boys roamed in feral packs trying to live another day, and whores plied their flesh trade. 

“No, I won't let you hurt my brother! I'll kill you before I let you do that again. We beat you! You're trapped in Hell with Michael. You're not real.”

His eyes flitted back and forth almost as if he was tracking a pacing person, his fingers curling into fists though he never raised them in either defense or offense. His words were mere bravado despite his attempt at being dominant to the voice (voices?) in his head. 

I checked my watch and saw I still had fifteen minutes before my bus arrived; I debated just leaving him to the streets but cursed myself soundly when I couldn't pass by this poor creature even as my fellow Chicagoans averted their eyes and pretended he didn't exist though they were forced to side-step his more theatrical movements. We were a block from the mission where hot soup and a small heel of bread could be given to him and a bed if there was room, but it would take more time than I had to herd him if I wished to make it home on time. 

You'd think Liam would cease to bother me, nearly twenty-five years after his death, but I could see his ghostly hand reaching for the unfortunate man, compassion he never had in real life softening the youthful lines of his dead face. I heaved a sigh and nearly threw my hands up in the air, but knew there was nothing I could do to avoid this. I was going to miss my bus. 

“Honey, you must be cold,” I soothed as I inched closer, keeping myself well out of striking range. “Is there anyone I can call to come pick you up?” It was necessary for me to try to insert myself into his delusion to catch his attention because touching him was out of the question. He didn't respond to me, continuing to argue with his imaginary foe, but I noticed he had ceased standing in the middle of the sidewalk and returned to his former position against the building as if he were trying to escape.

I leaned against the wall as well and continued talking to him, telling my name and occupation and what type of Monday I endured. It must've seemed strange to the people walking past, but something about him tugged at me and demanded I not stop until I got his full attention. 

Finally, “Are you real Maddy Connor?”

My head snapped up, though I wasn't conscious of dropping it at any point, and my eyes met his. “I'd like to think so.”

He chuckled weakly. “I'm not sure what's real or not. Was there a blond man with rotting facial skin standing in front of me taunting me with how much I fucked up the world by nearly becoming the Anti-Christ?”

A chill stole over me which had nothing to do with the low sixties temperature, but I refused to let it show in my body language or voice. “Nope, sorry kiddo, it's just you and me.”

His head tilted a moment, the long hair momentarily shifting so I could see his face a little more clearly. He was younger than I expected, late twenties at most, and good looking despite his agitation. “Kiddo.” He looked away then returned his gaze to mine. “I haven't been called that in years. Not since -” the ending of his sentence trailed off as a lost look transformed his face again, de-aging him further until he really did resemble the “kiddo” I had called him. I'm not sure why I chose that appellation, but something about him just brought out the mother in me. It was disconcerting and uncomfortable for me because I had long since armored myself against those types of feelings; I couldn't do my job and make the choices I had to on a daily basis if I allowed myself to dwell on my own past.

“Well, you know my name. What's yours?”

“Sam.”

I ignored the twinge that accompanied his name. “Just Sam? Or do you have a last name?” During my one-sided conversation I had noticed his clothes, while not brand-new or fresh from the washer, were well-worn and well-cared for which indicated he wasn't homeless. There was probably someone looking for him and frantic at his absence. He was older than the kids I worked with, but he was as helpless as many of them since his mental condition left him defenseless.

His mouth opened, then closed, and a strange expression slid over his features. The sun was lowering in the sky and brushed the tops of the buildings surrounding us, so gathering shadows hid him from me. I couldn't read him as easily as I could before. 

“I don't remember.”

He was lying, but I didn't know why. 

“Do you know your brother's phone number?”

It was a shot in the dark based solely upon what he kept muttering to his voice.

“Dean?” Suddenly his timid air evaporated and he straightened to his full height, at least four inches past the six foot mark, and loomed over me. “Christo!”

I raised a brow. “By Christ?”

He slumped away from me, his tall rangy frame deflating until he was small again. It was a neat trick and it told me something: here was a man who was well-aware of how physically intimating he was and he tried to deflect attention away from his size unless absolutely necessary. There was something strange going on here because most schizophrenics in my experience, admittedly limited, weren't that self-aware even during their lucid periods. 

“You know Latin?”

“I _am_ Irish Catholic and I used to work with a priest, so it kinda goes with the territory. Why would you call on Christ anyway?”

Sam shrugged. “Just making sure you weren't a demon.”

“I promise I'm fully human.” 

“I wish I had some Holy Water for you to drink,” he eyed me grimly. “Recite the Lord's Prayer.”

I knew better than to buy into his delusions, but at the same time I wanted to keep him talking and anchored to the present, so I gave in and recited it twice: once in Latin and once again in English.

“Okay, I believe you now.”

“Sam, I promise I'm actually here and I want to help you. Is Dean your brother? Can I call him to come get you? If you don't know, I know a place you can stay until we find someone to help you.”

The high-pitched whine of electricity alerted me to the street-lights flickering on a second before they did, enforcing my need to find him someplace warm. It wasn't quite dusk yet and I really did need to get home myself. 

“Yeah, I would call Dean but my phone is dead.” He fumbled in his front jeans pocket, withdrawing a burner cell and holding it out like a student showing his teacher proof his homework was eaten by the dog. I accepted it and pressed the on button but the screen remained dark.

“Do you know his number?”

Sam squinted a moment, his eyes looking up as he clearly tried to remember. “Uh, I think so?”

I dug into my purse and retrieved my own phone, fingers hovering over the number pad. He hesitatingly gave me the digits and I held the receiver to my ear. The ringing relieved me because at least it wasn't completely a figment of his imagination, though who knows if it was actually this Dean person.

_Hello?_

“Hi, is this Dean?”

_Who wants to know?_

“You don't know me, but I think I know your brother Sam.” God it was hard saying those two names, memories flickering in the background to the Dean and Sam of my yesterdays. If I could save this Sam, mayhap it would bring peace for the one I lost before.

_Where the hell are you? Where is he? How did he get there?_

An impish grin split Sam's face and twin dimples bookended his lips as he heard the barrage of angry words audible through the phone. He was absolutely adorable in that moment and I hoped had found his people. “That's my Dean alright.”

“We're in Chicago and -”

_We'll be right there!_

The screen showed the call had ended even as I looked at it disbelievingly. “Uh, he hung up on me.”

Sam nodded. “Dean's like that. Don't worry, he'll be here soon.”

“He said we will be right here.”

“Oh joy. You'll get to meet Cas.”

“But he doesn't know where we are so how can he get here?”

“Where there's a will there's a way.” He shrugged again, eyes focused on the cuffs of his long sleeves. “My brother can do anything.” The words seemed tinged with sadness, which was odd because they should've sounded like hero-worship instead.

“But even he can't find us in the city without specific directions -”

“No he can't, but I can once I locked upon a specific person. Hello Maddy Connor.”

Sam looked over my shoulder to the gravel-voiced man standing behind me. “Cas.”

“Sam. Your brother was frantic when you disappeared. You know he doesn't like when you leave his side.”

The words were chastising but the tone...was not. 

I was city-bred and reared, so I was very uncomfortable for strangers to be at my back, much less caught between two unknown men, so I stepped away and turned to face both. Only, to my surprise, there was a third male folded over his knees as he fought not to heave. I pinched myself to make sure I was actually seeing these two men who seemingly popped out of thin air. 

"Where did you-how did you-" my tongue tripped over the words as I tried to figure out how they appeared, but no one paid any attention to me. The man who'd originally spoken, the one Sam called Cas, reached out and "booped" my nose, and suddenly I felt remarkably calm. I obviously missed the taxi dropping them off at the curb because I was so intent on Sam. 

“Damnit Cas! You know I hate Angel Air Express.”

“My apologies, Dean, but you did say you wished to get to Sam as soon as possible.”

“I know what I said, but damnit -” Dean slowly stood, stretching up and out until he dwarfed me – what did their parents feed them to be so big? He was dressed in similar clothes to Sam, plaid flannel over a t-shirt and jeans, except he was clearly more at ease with his body. 

He took a few steps past the two of us towards his brother, relief warring with anguished love as he took in Sam's posture. “Sammy,” he said gently, his strong and scarred hand extended towards him. Their fingertips kissed, held, pulled, and suddenly their large bodies were entwined into a complex knot I couldn't unravel with my eyes. 

“They are a true example of my Father's finest work,” the voice at my side murmured.

I startled and eyed the strange trench-coated man. “What?”

“Human love is the strongest force in this world. It is enough to stop even the Apocalypse.”

“Surely you don't buy into Sam's delusions?”

Cas tilted his head at me, bright blue eyes searching my face. “Sam is not delusional just remembering time spent with my brother locked in the cage in Hell.”

Oh boy. Dean sure had his hands full with these two.

I fidgeted as the hug continued on and on and on, though I was loathe to interrupt the reunion especially as I could hear Dean whispering to Sam, his hands carding through the younger's hair in a soothing manner. I wished I could hear what was being said but knew it wasn't meant for me. I looked at my watch again and saw there was ten minutes until the next bus heading in my direction came by. 

“They were never lost, Maddy. As long as they go hand in hand, they will never lose their way.”

“Who are _they_?”

Cas nudged me in the direction of the brothers. “They were never yours to lose in the first place. They were sent to help the lost boys find their way home.”

My breath rattled in my chest as I wondered at the implication in his words. “What?” I'd never been so confused as I have been these last few minutes.

“When Dean and Sam came to St. Jerome's, it was not because they needed to escape John Winchester. They came as a favor to Father Jacobs to aid him stopping the one killing the boys.”

Shock leeched warmth and color from me as I processed his words, dredging up memories from the terrible summer when Carlos, Vinny, Simon, and Malik went missing from the Boys' Home, their disappearances unremarked in a crime-ridden and broken neighborhood. Only Father Jacobs and I hadn't believed they were causalities of their former lifestyles, each boy showing improvement and growth, fledgling hope for a new life.

“How can you possibly know that? Who _are_ you people?”

At my screech, the brothers broke apart and looked towards us. They were beautiful in the slashing light, half-shaded by the night fallen around us. I saw how well they fitted together despite their disparate heights, Sam tucked into Dean's side with ease. It shook me, that familiar gesture from a young boy who stepped out of my office and into long shadow cast by his brother as if seeking safety. It was a lie, that long ago me had told him silently, as much as lie as any Liam told me before he died. 

“Dean? Sam?”

My disbelieving tone jolted them from their puzzlement and they exchanged glances, an entire conversation spoken between furrow of the brow, pursed lips, and the roll of shoulders. 

“If you're really who he says you are, what book did you read outside my office at St. Jerome's?”

Sam's mouth hung open as he blinked his eyes rapidly. “What are you talking about?”

“Cas says I know you. If you were ever at St. Jerome's, what book did you read?”

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_.” Cas responded. “It is unfair to ask Sam because he would not be able to tell you since it is buried beneath the rubble of his wall.”

I stared. “There's no way you could've know that.”

The passage of fourteen years should've blunted or dulled my memories, tinged them with shades of rose, but I was ever a pragmatist and a good sort of Catholic. The names and faces of the seven boys we lost between one breath and the next were forever written on my heart so I lit a candle for them every year, knees bent in supplication to a god I wasn't sure existed, but couldn't completely discount. 

“And you -” I pointed accusingly at Dean - “what did you do to me in the office?”

“Sorry sweetheart, but I don't remember you. Knowing me and pretty women, I probably hit on you.”

I trembled, remembering a swaggering litheness coupled with angelic beauty, green eyes resolute as he sought to distract me from my questions. Instead of falling for his charms, I had reacted badly, slapping him as dark memories from a bad time in my life prior to that nearly overwhelmed me. 

He stepped closer, away from the clutching embrace of his brother, and looked at me intently as if matching me against a series of faces in his mind. “GED. You're the one who pushed me towards getting my GED.”

Tears rose unbidden as I finally saw the boys they were then in the men they were today. “I was sure you'd die if you went back to your father. Dean, if not Sam.” I still could see the large livid bruise on his leanly muscled back, the burns, and half-healed knife wound on his arm; it spoke to a life filled with physical abuse, regardless of his silence on the subject of who caused it.

Dean's lips quirked as he scratched at the back of his head with one hand. “Death and I are old buddies. Let's just say, our father was never the direct cause of his visits.” Obviously a story there, but I found I didn't really want to know. It was enough they'd survived their hellish childhood intact. Well sort of, I amended, looking at Sam and thinking of his schizophrenia. 

“Hmph,” Sam huffed, arms folded in a petulant manner, eyes never leaving Dean's back. It appeared nothing had changed in the intervening years, Little Brother still fawning over Big Brother, loathe to share him unless absolutely necessary. He seemed lucid and alert, completely at odds with his demeanor when I first stumbled upon him. 

The shrieking of air brakes being applied interrupted my thoughts and I knew the next bus had arrived. I was torn between my curiosity for their life story, surely they could tell me now, and the knowledge I wouldn't be able to forget the hardships they'd endured. 

Dean took the decision out of my hands, in much the same manner he had all those years ago.

“We'll take him from here.” His eyes shifted away then back to me, discomfort sliding across his face. “Uh, thanks. For everything. And calling me.” Sam stepped up beside Dean, hand grasping his bicep, but attention focused on me. “Yeah, thanks from me too.”

It struck me then that I was never supposed to take care of them in any meaningful manner. They were complete unto each other, woe to anyone who attempted to separate them. Cas' declaration about the boys going hand in hand was apt – I had seen it and despaired of it when we first met because I had confused Dean with Liam's blithe carelessness and thought Sam would suffer the same loss of faith as I had. I was humbled by the strength of the love that must've carried them both through the tumultuous misery of dealing with schizophrenia and the loss of self that accompanied such a diagnosis. 

The small weight carved with their names slipped from my shoulders and lightened my heart. A smile curved my lips as I stepped away from them and back into my own mundane and normal world.

The bus door was closing behind me when I heard Cas' voice again as if he spoke directly into my ear: “He loves you still and awaits you in my Father's kingdom.”

I whipped around to demand what he meant but the sidewalk was empty.

**Author's Note:**

> I played around with Seasons 6&7 by giving Sam his Hell hallucinations while stopping Cas from making deals with Crowley and ascending to Godhood so he would still be apart of Team Free Will. I refuse to believe in the existence of Leviathans.


End file.
